Dancing with the Pain
by tchelsaetehrock
Summary: The night before the infamous Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock  asks Molly for help. Their plan succeeds, but at what cost?...Sherlock x Molly pairing
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so ever since I saw the first episode, I've always thought that Molly got a bad rap, and I know that I'm not the only one who felt that way. That's why, when she became uber important during TRF, my inner feminist was like, "_Woot!_" Plus, I think that the Sherlolly ship, besides having a name that reminds me of some kind of sexual lollipop, is just the cutest thing since the cutest thing that came before it :D**

**OH MY GOD GUYS I CRIED SO HARD DURING REICHENBACH *TEARS**

**This fic is just basically my theory of how Sherlock managed to survive, plus throwing in some hopefully convincing fluff.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. The greatest show on Earth belongs to "The Moff" and Godtiss.**

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><p>Molly's heart raced as the scene played out before her. She sat at the wheel of the lorry, her hands clenched tight to the steering wheel. She glanced back at the bed, for what felt like the hundredth time, where an inflated cushion rested. She turned her gaze to the roof of St. Bart's where a tall figure stood precariously on the edge. Sherlock's phone was to his ear, and his long coat flared out behind him in a sudden breeze.<p>

Molly tensed as she recited the plan in her head, and she waited for Sherlock's signal. He brought his arm out in a pleading gesture, presumably towards John. Even though he was five stories above her, she could see the anguish and desperation in his face. She knew that at least part of it was for show, but she couldn't help wondering if Sherlock knew what kind of pain he was putting John through.

Steeling herself for what lay ahead in the next few crucial minutes, she replayed in her head the conversation with the detective the previous night…

"_What do you need?" she had asked. He paused, and he stared into her eyes._

"_You," he said simply. She inhaled softly, hesitating before she replied._

"_In what sense?" she asked. He smirked, though to her it seemed a little sad._

"_Not in the way you're probably hoping," he said. Molly's cheeks grew pink, and she looked down at her feet. She felt him take a step closer._

"_Molly," he said, almost tenderly. She brought her eyes back up to his. His blue-gray eyes bored into hers as he placed his hands on her shoulders. She fought to suppress a shiver._

"_Molly, what I'm asking of you will hopefully save my life, and possibly those of many others," he said all this with a sense of urgency. His hands tightened their grip on her shoulders a fraction, and the meaning of his words slowly sunk in._

"_What do you need?" she asked, yet again._

"_I need you to help me commit suicide," he replied, his voice steady. Her eyes widened._

"_What?" she whispered. He brought up his hands in front of him, his eyes almost pleading._

"_Not actual suicide," he said quickly. "Just making it _look_ like I've killed myself, so others won't be targeted." She bit her lip apprehensively._

"_What do you mean, 'so others won't be targeted?'" He sighed and turned away, his hand rubbing through his hair._

"_Contrary to popular belief, I do have…if not friends, people I don't want to see get hurt because of me," he said quietly. He turned back to her, and the troubled look in his eyes melted Molly's heart a little._

So, _she thought,_ he DOES care.

"_What do you need me to do?" she asked, squaring her shoulders. Sherlock smiled, and her heart skipped a beat._

The next hour had been spent planning, what they hoped, would be full-proof plan. Molly, though, saw a million things that could possibly go wrong, but she began to believe that, through sheer force of will, Sherlock's own propensity to be right about nearly everything was all they needed to ensure success. She had to admit to herself that it had been thrilling, planning a conspiracy in the dead of night with the man she was infatuated with.

Now she sat at the wheel of a lorry, adrenaline pumping through her and hardly believing what she was actually doing. She kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock, who now had taken his phone from his ear. She turned to key in the ignition, ready to peel out, and drew in a breath. Sherlock threw his phone behind him onto the roof, and Molly knew the moment had come. Her heart pounded and her hands were shaking as she watched Sherlock take a step into thin air. She continued to watch, with almost surreal fascination, how he fell gracefully towards the ground. Molly felt the thump as he landed on the cushion on the bed of the lorry, and she looked back to see that he was safe. Sherlock lay sprawled across the back, the blood pack that had been hidden in his coat having ruptured and painted his face and neck scarlet. From his pocket he quickly pulled a small pill and swallowed it. Sherlock looked to Molly, gave a nod, and rolled off the bed of the lorry and onto the pavement.

Molly turned back to face the front, and maneuvered herself away from the sidewalk and into traffic. In her rearview mirror she could see the figure of John coming around the side of the smaller building. One of Sherlock's trusted homeless network, riding a bicycle, collided with the doctor, as they had planned. In John's disorientated and shocked state, it would be harder for him to see what he believed to be Sherlock lying dead on the sidewalk. Molly felt a stab of pity for the man, who had been the closest to Sherlock. Molly turned a corner just as John reached Sherlock, and she felt tears well up in her eyes in sympathy for good doctor.

She quickly pulled over and raced from the car into St. Bart's. If Sherlock had timed it correctly, the paramedics should have been bringing him in now. Molly sprinted along labyrinthine corridors, sliding to a halt by the entrance to the loading dock. A small group of paramedics was wheeling a stretcher through the doors, and Molly could see Sherlock lying motionless. If she didn't know better, she would have automatically thought there was no chance of survival for him. Even though she did know better, her stomach still dropped and she still put a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

One of the medics looked up and saw her standing there.

"Molly!" he shouted. His voice snapped her to attention, and she hastily wiped away her tears.

"Run and get Dr. Stamford!" he ordered. He and the others were currently checking Sherlock's vital signs, but they didn't look hopeful.

Molly nodded, and took off the way she came. As she raced to get to the upper floors, she prayed to anyone who she thought would listen that Sherlock's brilliant plan would continue to go off without a hitch. She finally reached the corridor where Stamford's office was located, and she paused to catch her breath outside the door before hammering on it. She was still pounding her fists into the wood when it was suddenly opened and Mike Stamford stood on the threshold, a bewildered look on his face.

"Molly?" he asked, incredulous.

The stress of the past few minutes had already added its strain to Molly's face, so the desperation in her voice matched the desperation in her eyes.

"It's Sherlock," she gasped. Stamford's eyes widened, and he nodded in understanding. Molly turned to make their way down to the loading dock, only glancing behind once to make sure Stamford kept up with her. For a man of his girth, he could keep up a steady pace.

They met the paramedics, ironically, outside the doors to the mortuary. Stamford raced up behind her and flew to Sherlock's side as the paramedics stepped away from the stretcher. They, and Molly, looked on as Stamford examined Sherlock's body. Though he tried to maintain an indifferent expression on his face, Molly could see the sadness in his eyes at the loss of a friend. Sherlock, apparently dead, gazed up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

Stamford finished his examination, placed his hands on the stretcher, and lowered his head in a gesture of fatigue. When he looked up, his gaze met Molly's, and he slowly shook his head. He motioned for the paramedics to wheel Sherlock's body into the mortuary. Molly, feigning shock, could only stand there and stare off numbly as the detective's body passed by her.

When the mortuary doors had swung shut, Stamford walked up to her tiredly.

"Molly," he said softly. She looked to him with what she hoped were haunted eyes.

"If…if you feel like you can't handle it," he said slowly until his voice hitched. He coughed slightly, then continued.

"If you would like…someone else to perform…you know," he muttered. "No one would blame you - "

She held up a hand to silence him, and swallowed the lump in her throat. He waited as she shut her eyes and squared her shoulders, trying to adopt the same attitude she had always used when dealing with other dead bodies. She opened her eyes and looked squarely at him.

"It's fine," she said, and she was impressed that her voice didn't tremble. Stamford nodded, concern in his eyes, but he didn't say any more. He turned to go, bringing a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his face with it as he trudged slowly up the corridor.

Molly sighed, more tired than she ever had been. She looked up as the paramedics left the mortuary, and she caught the door as it swung shut. She entered the dimly lit, sterile looking room. In the middle of the room sat the stretcher, Sherlock still in repose, and Molly paused to consider the enormity of the situation. She quickly turned to lock the door before leaning heavily against it. Slowly she slid to the floor as all of her suppressed emotions rushed to the surface. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she put her head in her shaking hands.

_My god_, she thought, _we DID it!_

Suddenly, the whole thing seemed ridiculously funny, and she giggled hysterically to herself for a moment. However, she sobered instantly when she realized that their plan was still incomplete.

She quickly got to her feet and dashed over to Sherlock. Looking down at the man lying before her, she couldn't help the way her palms started to sweat or the fact that her mouth had gone dry. Even when he wasn't speaking, or moving for that matter, he still had that power over her. Her gaze swept over the dark tousled hair, now matted with blood, his almond-shaped blue-gray eyes that, even in simulated death held a piercing gaze, his sharp cheekbones and full lips, also spattered with blood. She continued to stare until the alarm on her watch snapped her out of her reverie. Her eyes widened as she realized that she needed to administer the antidote within the next minute and a half, or Sherlock's heart rate would continue to slow until he actually _did_ die.

She reached hastily into her lab coat and withdrew a syringe filled with clear liquid. Sticking the syringe between her teeth, she grabbed Sherlock's arm and forced up the sleeve of his coat to reveal his pale forearm. She quickly plunged the needle into his skin and pushed down the plunger. When the syringe was empty she removed it and gazed hopefully at the detective's face for signs of movement.

"Come on…" she muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't give up on me now, Sherlock. Don't let this insane plan go to waste."

When he still hadn't moved, she tossed aside the empty syringe and grabbed his face, fulfilling one of her fantasies, though not in the way she had preferred. She put her ear to his mouth, and felt the lightest breath escape his lips. She smiled as she lifted her head. She put two fingers to the side of his neck, and felt his steady pulse, still a little too slow for her liking. Her brow furrowed with worry, then with determination as she placed her hands squarely on his chest, also fulfilling another one of her fantasies.

_How sad_, she thought as she pumped up and down with a steady rhythm. _The day I finally get to touch him, I have to save his bloody life at the same time_.

Taking her hands from his chest, she tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. Placing her mouth over his, she pushed air into his lungs, then repeated the entire ritual again. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she concentrated at the task at hand.

"Come _on_, Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she checked his pulse again. She could feel it steadily growing stronger.

"Wake _up_ you stupid, impossible man!" she almost screamed in his face. For a moment she stood there panting, until a slight fluttering of his eyelids made her pause. She held her breath as Sherlock blinked once, twice, before grimacing in pain and coughing as he gasped for air. Her own breath left her in a whoosh so fast her knees began to buckle in relief. She slumped to the floor in an exhausted heap. Above her, Sherlock was trying to push himself up as his coughing slowed. He managed to pull himself upright, and sat there panting for a moment, one hand to his forehead.

Molly looked up at him in slight awe, and his gaze locked with hers. Some unnamable emotion passed between them; a mixture of absolute relief and a new sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before. However, the moment was gone when Sherlock looked away and coughed discreetly. Molly turned her gaze away and felt herself blush. She got to her feet, but avoided looking at him directly. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?

_Oh, that's right_, she thought, not without a slight bitterness. _The man, whose life you just saved, is going to suddenly sweep you off your feet and plant a kiss on you in gratitude._ She snorted derisively to herself in her head.

Next to her, Sherlock swung his long legs off the stretcher and tried to stand. However, his legs didn't seem to want to cooperate, and he swayed unsteadily as he gasped softly in pain. Molly, alarmed, caught him around the ribs before he toppled to the floor. His eyes were shut tight and his teeth were clenched for an instant, until he smoothed his features. She looked at him with concern. Sherlock saw the worry on her face, and tried to straighten himself with dignity.

"Thank you, Molly," he said, his voice slightly hoarse but still managing to sound haughty. He gently disengaged himself from her grip, though he kept the weight off of his right foot, Molly noticed. She frowned.

"Sherlock, does your ankle hurt?" she asked. He snorted softly.

"Of course not," he said snootily, and promptly took a step forward. She clearly saw him wince, though he tried to mask it. She rolled her eyes.

_Good to see a near death experience hasn't caused any shifts in personality_, she thought sarcastically.

"Sherlock, your ankle is obviously either sprained or broken," she said, as though talking to a child. She crossed her arms in front of her to emphasize her point. "Whatever the matter is, you shouldn't be walking around with a bad ankle."

He scowled at her, but made no move to contradict her. Obviously, he knew that the safety of his well-being depended upon her cooperation, and arguing with her would not win him her favor. Molly felt a small sense of immense satisfaction that he relied so heavily on her at the moment. She almost smiled as his scowl shifted to a resigned sigh.

"You're right, Molly," he said, though she could tell he was making an effort at being cordial. "If you must know, it's not only my ankle, but my leg up to above my knee that is in considerable pain at the moment." He said all this without so much as batting an eye, but Molly saw the strain around his eyes the pain was causing him. The blood that dried on his face and clothing did not improve the image, either. She sighed, then uncrossed her arms as she made her way to the door.

"I'm going find some splints and ace bandages," she announced with her back to the detective.

"Molly."

She stopped just shy of the door, and turned slowly back to face him with her eyebrows raised. He had sat himself on an autopsy table with his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Her irritation with him dulled slightly when she saw the sincere look in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and this time she could tell his gratitude was genuine. Her heart warmed a little and a small smile graced her lips.

"Just don't let yourself be seen," she joked. "Otherwise, people might start thinking I've been doing Frankenstein-esque experiments down here." He stared at her as she gave him one last smile before going out the door. When she had gone, he smirked to himself at her unusual sense of humor.

_Yes_, he thought._ I made the right choice_.

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><p><strong>Love? Hate? Review? CONTINUE?<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, that took a little longer than I expected. I've been working on this chapter every night for at least half an hour each for a week and half, and my brain is about fried x.x**

**This is a bit lengthy, being about 10.5 pages long (the first chapter was about 6) in Microsoft Word. I say this because I'm impressed that I could actually write that much without wanting to hurt myself :)**

**Disclaimer: Characters belong to "The Moff", Godtiss, and (I forgot to mention in Chapter 1!) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Story line is mine, unless I miraculously guessed bits of next season.**

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><p>Molly still had not returned after several minutes, and Sherlock's overactive brain was running out of things to do to entertain itself. However, he was beginning to wonder if he had a slight concussion, since he felt that his mind was more sluggish than normal. Sitting on the cold, hard autopsy table didn't make his leg feel any better, and he winced slightly every time a bolt of pain shot up from his ankle. From his injury he could deduce that his ankle was most likely broken when he landed in the lorry, and that the bones in his shin and knee were likely bruised as well. And it wasn't just his leg; his whole body ached all over. He knew that he was lucky that he had escaped alive and with so little injury. That still didn't make the pain any less enjoyable.<p>

Sweeping his gaze around the room, his eyes met his reflection on the glass partition of the viewing room. Sherlock frowned as he saw his bloodstained and haggard appearance. He reached up and tried to rub away some of the blood from his forehead, but with no success. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sink that Molly used for washing up after an autopsy. Bracing himself, he slid off the table and managed to limp his way over to the metal basin, panting with the effort. When he reached it he steadied himself with hands on either edge, and shifted his weight to his good leg. He closed his eyes briefly against the throbbing of his ankle. Opening them, he turned on the taps and scrubbed his face clean, using his scarf to dry off. His coat, though, couldn't be helped, and would need to be dry-cleaned.

He twisted his body around with his back to the sink, and prepared himself to limp his way back to the table. Pushing off, he managed to take two painful steps before the door to the mortuary opened and Molly stepped in. In her arms she carried the promised splints and ace bandages, but also a set of sea-foam green scrubs and a crutch. Sherlock's addled brain registered all this before he began tumbling to the floor, flinching as he did so. With surprising speed, Molly tossed aside the things she was carrying onto a nearby table and caught Sherlock's arm before he hit the ground.

"Sherlock, didn't I tell you to stay off that leg?" she admonished as she steadied him. Her dark eyes held concern, though he could see that she was exasperated. He drew himself up to his full height in an attempt to distance himself from her, but his vision swam before his eyes. Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"I think I'm perfectly capable of functioning without assistance, thanks," he scoffed as he disentangled himself from her grasp. He hobbled the rest of the way to the table, tipping precariously a couple times. Molly's eyes narrowed at the way he stumbled.

"Are you sure it's only your leg that's hurting you?" she asked as she made her way over to where she had left the bandages and splints. She gathered up the things in her arms and turned to go to him, and she saw him glower.

"Considering the fact that I just survived falling down five stories and landed rather uncomfortably in the bed of a lorry, I think it would be more appropriate to applaud said survival without focusing on the consequences," said Sherlock, tilting his head up in approval of his own genius. She mentally rolled her eyes. Really, he was incorrigible.

"Now I _know_ something's wrong with your head," she remarked, setting her load down next to him. "You're acting more arrogant than usual."

She froze, surprised at her own directness. Sherlock's brow furrowed in surprise as well.

_Wait, did I just call him arrogant? _she thought. She mentally waved it away. _It's just the adrenaline talking_.

"Why, Molly," he commented, "I had no idea you had such spunk."

She looked at him, her cheeks coloring. He smirked, but it wasn't mocking. Molly turned away, her natural shyness creeping back.

"Erm…let's get your ankle fixed up, shall we?" she asked, moving to get the splint. She avoided looking at him as she braced his ankle and wrapped the bandages around it. She looked up once or twice to see his blue-gray eyes staring curiously off into space.

_Great, _she thought, _now I'm almost definitely sure he has a concussion_.

Molly sighed as she stood up and admired her handiwork.

"I think that should hold you for a while," she remarked. She reached over and grabbed the crutch and held it out before him. Sherlock regarded it for a moment before shifting his eyes to her, a blank look on his face.

"You can't hobble around everywhere." She shook it for emphasis. Sherlock reached out slowly and took it from her, still regarding her blankly.

"I have some painkillers in my purse," she said after a moment, heading to her office. Molly grabbed her bag from underneath the desk and set it on the table, rifling through its cluttered contents. When she found the small white bottle of ibuprofen, she turned to leave when she saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, leaning on the crutch under his arm. His sudden appearance made her jump.

"Do you always do that?" she asked, flustered. His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Scare the living daylights out of people by appearing out of nowhere!"

"It's not like I do it for fun."

Molly could feel a headache coming on. A concussed Sherlock wasn't that much different than his usual self, except maybe more annoying.

"Just-" she started, but then gave up on retorting. She thrust bottle out to him exasperation. "Here, just take the medicine."

Sherlock frowned at her command.

"I don't take painkillers," he stated. Now it was Molly's turn to frown.

"Why not?"

He paused, as if considering his answer.

"Bad history," he finally said, his expression guarded. Molly's eyes widened, and Sherlock looked away.

"Oh…I'm, uh, sorry," she said softly, feeling awkward. Sherlock had had a drug problem? She knew about the nicotine patches…perhaps he had been into harder stuff when he was younger. But she wasn't asking him to shoot heroin, and she could see the rigidity in the furrow of his brow, trying to mask his discomfort. She thrust out the bottle again.

"Well, if not for your sake, then please take them for mine," she said, insistent.

He looked back to her, then his eyes dropped to the bottle, weighing his options. Should he suffer through it and endure her nagging that he should do something to relieve the pain, or risk the chance of a relapse? It wasn't exactly cocaine, but he had had a couple close calls with sedatives. But Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of someone badgering him all the time in concern for his health. He could barely tolerate John's inquiries about his well-being.

Deciding, he warily took the bottle from Molly's grasp, popped the cap, and swallowed two dry. Molly nodded in approval.

"Okay, now, before we leave I have to finish the autopsy report," she said. Sherlock nodded, shifting his weight so he was more comfortable. Molly noticed.

"Do you want to sit down?" she asked, motioning to her chair. He made his way over, plopping down with a soft groan. She smiled softly, and jerked her thumb towards the door.

"I'll just be out here," she said, exiting her office.

Sherlock sat stiffly, choosing to observe the room to pass the time. His eyes flitted over the items Molly kept in her office.

_Writing utensils on either side of the desk, handwriting on lab reports alternates slanting to the right and left: ambidextrous._ Huh…

_Wool trenchcoat over back of chair, with cat hair caught near the bottom hem: owns a small tabby, modest paycheck to afford such clothing._

_Photograph in frame, half of which has been ripped away, visible half containing middle-aged woman with traits similar to Molly's: mother or aunt, family issues from the way the photo is ripped._

Sherlock made several more deductions to entertain himself, and also to exercise his brain. He still felt a bit sluggish from the fall.

Leaning forward, he saw Molly standing at the counter filling out the necessary papers. Sherlock felt an unidentifiable twist in his stomach as he watched her. His breath caught, and suddenly he felt woozy. Maybe he had bunged up his head harder than he thought, because there was no way the sight of Molly could affect him so suddenly.

He reclined in the chair, feeling the beginnings of the drugs to take effect. Already the soreness in his head and body was fading. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Molly signed the autopsy report with a flourish, blowing hair out her face. Holding it up, she admired her handiwork. A lump formed in her throat, as she realized the magnitude of the lie they were trying pull off. She swallowed and pushed the thought away.

Gathering up the papers, she put them in a file and turned to go back to her office. At the threshold she paused, seeing Sherlock asleep in her chair. Smiling to herself, she placed the file on her desk. She took a moment to study his face, so different from when he had been "dead". In sleep, the lines around his mouth and eyes smoothed out, and he looked at least five years younger.

_It's nice to see that he actually does need rest_, Molly mused. _Every time I see him, he's going nonstop like a machine. _

Molly suddenly remembered to check her watch, realizing their best chance of escape would be within the next hour. Hating to disturb him, she reached out and lightly grasped Sherlock's arm as it lay in his lap. She shook it gently.

"Sherlock," she said softly. He didn't respond. She shook a little harder.

"Hey, Sherlock," she said slightly louder.

Suddenly, the world's only consulting detective woke up with a huge spasm that almost knocked him out of the chair. Molly's hand flew to her mouth, trying to suppress her laughing, but bit her lip instead when she saw the look he gave her. He shifted back to a more comfortable position, still glaring.

"Now you should be the one to talk about scaring the living daylights out of people," Sherlock said snippily. She ignored the jibe.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up suddenly," she said, sincere, though the memory of his spasm was already stored in her mind for future amusement.

Sherlock inclined his head, acknowledging her apology. Reaching down to the floor beside him, he grasped the crutch and pulled himself up onto his good leg, essentially towering over Molly. She stood her ground, though inside she warred with herself over taking a step closer or backing away. It wasn't like Sherlock was that much taller than her, but the mere strength of his presence gave the impression of greater height.

"Well, Molly," he began, his tone businesslike. "Thank you for helping me, but I think it's time I flew the coop." He brushed past her, and she stared after him, incredulous. She blinked and rushed to block the doorway. He stumbled, trying not to crash into her, and she planted her feet as he glared down at her.

"Sherlock, are you mad?" She looked up at him with disbelieving eyes. "You must be joking. You can't leave now!" He blinked.

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked. Molly pointed, exasperated, to his crutch

"I can think of several reasons why!"

"A minor setback."

Molly closed her eyes, reeling in her annoyance.

"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" she asked opening her eyes, and regarding him calmly. He frowned, irritated that she was blocking his exit.

"You've done everything I asked you to. You helped me fake my death, and I didn't ask for any more than that. It's only logical now that I should take my leave of you so we both can get on with other things." He tried to move past her, but she stayed resolutely planted in front of him. Molly crossed her arms across her chest, her expression serious.

"Sherlock, you're not going to get very far with a broken ankle," she stated. He tilted his head upwards defiantly.

"You're going to need to stay off of it for at least a week, if not more with the rest of your injuries," she continued, getting the feeling that he was about to become mutinous. He opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly cut him off.

"Sherlock, you know I'm right, so don't even try to argue." Something different in her tone made Sherlock stop his incoming diatribe. Molly felt a thrill tingle through her as he closed his mouth and looked away sulkily. What had gotten into her that made her so bold?

_That's twice today I've convinced him I was right_, she thought. _That's got to be a record or something._

Molly turned and strode across the mortuary, leaving him standing in the doorway. He observed as she picked up the scrubs she had sat down earlier and returned, holding out the pants and shirt to him. He took them from her, understanding her intention, though he was still irritated.

"Disguise for sneaking out?" he asked. Molly nodded.

"Well done, Molly," he said, not unkindly. "It had crossed my mind, but it seems like you're one of the few people who has been able to read my thoughts for me. Believe me, _that's_ a rare occasion."

Molly blinked stupidly. Was that a…compliment? This was getting weird, even by non-drugged, non-concussed Sherlock standards. She fumbled for words, while he watched her embarrassed reaction.

"Um…thank you?" It sounded more like a question, but Molly wasn't used to receiving compliments, especially from Sherlock.

"You can change in my office," she said quickly, avoiding his gaze and shooing him back into the room. Slightly amused, he turned and set down the crutch. Then he pulled off his bloodstained coat, wincing as he put weight on his bad leg. Molly hesitated.

"Are..are you going to need some, er, help?" she ventured. Sherlock's head whipped around, his eyes wide for a second before his usual mask fell back into place.

"No, no, I think I can manage," he said, giving her the smile he always gave her when he was trying to be flattering, though it fell from his face when he turned back around. Molly nodded, though she could see through the fake smile this time. She shut the door, leaving him to change.

Sherlock slowly peeled off his clothes, mourning the loss of a perfectly good suit. As he undressed, he tried not to think about Molly's question, or the images that had jumped to his mind when she had asked it. He pulled on the scrubs, his sore muscles protesting, and adjusted the shirt so it didn't bunch up in the back, trying not to imagine Molly smoothing the creases from the fabric. He forcefully pushed the thought away, rebuking himself for letting his thoughts stray to unimportant subjects.

Balancing on one foot, he gathered up his clothes and opened the door to find Molly leaning against the wall, head in her hand. She looked up at him, and he saw her bite her lip to keep from smirking. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down.

"What?" he demanded. Molly shook her head.

"Nothing," she said, though the image of Sherlock Holmes wearing scrubs was probably one of the funniest (and, she had to admit to herself, sexiest) things she had ever seen. His dark hair and pale skin seemed to make the sea foam color of the ensemble brighter, and the clothes hung off of his lean body awkwardly. For some reason, Molly thought he could work the look. The stress of the day was definitely getting to her.

Sherlock shuffled forward and placed his blood-soaked clothes on the counter.

"Did you manage to find a body?" he asked, turning to back to her.

"Yes," she replied, starting to attention as she remembered the final part of their plan. Heading to the far wall where the bodies were stored, she unlocked and drew out the sliding table, already labeled with Sherlock's name, that held the body of a John Doe. Sherlock followed and went around to the other side, facing Molly over the corpse. She drew back the sheet to reveal a man around the same age as Sherlock, with the same height and build. The face, however, was slightly more rounded, the nose less aquiline, and the stomach was a bit pudgier. Sherlock's eyes roved over his replacement body.

"Impressive, Molly," he commented. "The noticeable differences will of course be attributed to a botched up embalming. No one ever looks exactly the same going into the ground as when they kicked the bucket."

His eyes strayed to the John Doe's head.

"Is that a wig?"

Molly's cheeks grew pink.

"Well, yes," she said, slightly embarrassed. "It was this, or you would have been ginger at your funeral."

Smirking, Sherlock nodded, and Molly felt a small swell of pride in her chest. Just then, she noticed one of her lab assistants pass slowly by the observation window, absorbed in the file they were reading, and obviously headed for the mortuary door. Her eyes widened, and Molly went into panic mode.

"Sherlock!" she hissed, and he looked up from his musing, confused, as she flew to his side and grabbed his arm. With a strength she didn't know she had, she managed to kick the table back into its compartment while dragging a stunned detective to her office. She shut the door behind them just as the mortuary door opened. Next to her, Sherlock's face was contorted in pain, and he was doubled over. Molly rushed to his side.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she whispered frantically, her hands fluttering over his arched body. Sherlock held up a hand, and she dropped her hands to her side, biting her lip. He took a deep breath and straightened himself, balancing totally on one foot. He rolled his shoulders back, sniffed stiffly, and looked down at her. Despite her racing heart, Molly was transfixed as his eyes locked with hers.

"I'm fine, Molly," he whispered, his voice strained. Grabbing her chair, he sat down as quietly as he could, while Molly hovered for a moment by his shoulder before going to the door and putting her ear against the wood. No sound came through, so she slowly twisted the door handle and inched it open. Through the crack she could see her lab assistant pulling open another compartment and removing the sheet from another body. She waited, tense, as they wrote something in their file before pulling the sheet back in place and storing away the body. They left her line of sight, and she heard the mortuary door close. She exhaled the breath she'd been holding, relieved. She turned and saw Sherlock watching her calmly, as if they had not just almost been discovered. Molly, however, leaned wearily against the door.

"So," he began casually, "since you refuse to let me out of your sight, where would you suggest we go from here?" He looked at her expectantly.

"Well, my flat would probably be best, and you could hide there until you recover completely."

Molly's insides twisted at the thought of Sherlock in her home, but whether from nervousness or excitement, she couldn't tell. What kind of deductions could he make about her? She didn't know if she could handle an invasion of her privacy like that, whether intentional or not. But this was Sherlock, and she knew he needed all the help he could get, even if he didn't want it.

Leaning over, Molly grabbed her purse and her coat. Taking off her lab coat, she hung it on the back of her office door as Sherlock stood slowly, leaning on his crutch. Molly, having put on her regular coat, opened the door for him, and he shambled forward. She locked her office behind them, and gathered up Sherlock's bloodied clothes in her arms. Already he was halfway across the room, and she rushed to stop him before he reached the door.

"Let me check for anyone first," she said. Sherlock nodded, and Molly opened the door and stuck her head out into the hallway, looking left and right. She looked back at Sherlock.

"Clear," she said, and held the door open for him. He shuffled past her into the corridor, already heading in the direction of the nearest exit. Molly caught up with him and walked slowly alongside, listening for voices or footsteps. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her.

"Sherlock, I don't have a car," she began, "How are we supposed to get back to my flat without you being recognized? Scrubs aren't really the best camouflage in the streets." She looked up at him, her dark eyes worried.

"Don't worry, I have a stash of hidden clothes nearby that should be enough," he replied, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. Molly nodded, impressed that he had thought ahead more than her.

They made their way down two more corridors before reaching the door that led outside, near where Sherlock had fallen from the roof. Molly checked again that the coast was clear, and they snuck out into the fading dusk. Sherlock immediately turned east, away from the setting sun, and made his way to an alleyway across the street, stumbling a few times. Molly followed closely, surprised that hardly anyone was out and about. Maybe they had heard of the suicide earlier that day, and were avoiding the spot where it happened.

Molly, though she was surrounded by death every day, always felt a cold chill thinking about how people would take their own lives when there was so much good to live for every day. That's why she had been so shocked when Sherlock had asked for her help, and also partly because she couldn't understand any reason why Sherlock would want to kill himself. But she had a theory that Sherlock would only cause himself physical harm if any of his few friends were in danger. She wasn't sure, but she liked to count herself among the few people that Sherlock trusted the most that he was capable of trusting.

And if her theory was correct, it only served to remind Molly that he was actually human and not some brilliant yet heartless robot. And she needed the reassurance sometimes.

Molly was pulled from her thoughts as they entered the alley way, where Sherlock had stopped about 5 feet inside. He stooped down and started pulling aside several loose bricks, revealing a recess in the wall in which a canvas bag lay. He pulled the bag out, undid the zipper and held up a pair of faded jeans, a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, and a toboggan hat.

"Watch the entrance," he said, and proceeded to strip off the scrubs. Molly quickly turned around, her cheeks hot.

She watched the street, hearing him fumble a few times, and swear softly once, as he exchanged his clothing. When she heard him coming towards her on the crutch, she turned to face him. She had to blink a couple times to make sure it was actually Sherlock she was seeing. It was odd to see him in normal clothing, rather than in the immaculate suits he usually wore. He looked at least ten years younger, and the close fitting hat made his dark curls floof out from his head in a very adorable way, Molly thought. She smiled as he reached her at the mouth of the alley. He looked down at her curiously.

"Are you going to be staring at me all night, or are we going to get a cab?"

Molly's smile fell from her face as she sighed. Turning, she started down the street, searching for a cab and deliberately trying to ignore the man following in her wake. Sherlock, on his part, was growing increasingly confused by Molly's strange behavior. He attributed his confusion to the concussion, since Sherlock rarely ever let himself get confused.

About a block away from St. Bart's they managed to hail a cab, and soon found themselves seated awkwardly next to each other in the back. Molly gave the cabbie her address, and watched out the window as London raced by, trying to ignore the exciting fact that Sherlock would actually be staying with her. Her inner schoolgirl was gleeful.

Neither said a word to the other, Molly because she had suddenly regained her mouse-like tendencies now that they were in public, and Sherlock because after a certain case he was now always weary of cabbies and their possible benefactors.

Eventually, they arrived outside a small block of modest flats. Molly was thankful that she only lived on the second floor out of five, otherwise getting Sherlock into her flat would have been more of a hassle than it already was.

Turning the key, Molly opened the door to her home and flipped on the lights. Sherlock followed close behind, the hat pulled low over his eyebrows. From the kitchen came her cat, which mewed in greeting. Molly hung up her coat and turned to Sherlock.

"Um…make yourself at home I guess," she said, a little nervous. She watched him as his eyes roamed over her living room and her possessions, cataloging information on her, some of which she herself didn't even know. She could always tell when he was deducing something, and now that she was the subject again she felt anxious. She tried distracting herself.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, trying to play the hostess. "I could make some toast, or coffee...?"

"Thank you, Molly, coffee will do," he said, lowering himself onto the sofa a little less gracefully than he usually moved. At least his concussion had not affected his attempts at politeness, however hollow they were.

Heading to her little kitchen area, Molly paused to watch him set aside the crutch and relax into the cushions with a soft groan, setting his bad leg stretched out on her coffee table. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, sighing quietly.

With a small smile on her face, she went to the kitchen and set the timer on the coffee pot, her cat winding between her legs and purring up at her. Leaving that to brew, she made her way to her bedroom and retrieved her spare pillow and the extra quilt from her bed. Arms loaded, she entered her living room, expecting Sherlock to be ready to make known some kind of embarrassing observation he had made. Instead, she found him asleep, his head lolling to one side.

Her gaze softened, seeing the strain of the day etched on his tired face. She set down the spare pillow and quilt on one end of the sofa, and gently maneuvered Sherlock so he was lying down, being careful of his injured leg. He must have fallen deeply asleep quickly, because he didn't so much as twitch when she touched him.

"Oh, Sherlock," she wondered out loud, "Is this what John has to deal with whenever a case is solved? The inevitable crash?"

She adjusted him so he would be comfortable when he woke up, and then draped her quilt over his long body. His bad leg hung off the edge of the sofa, so she shifted her coffee table over to serve as a support for it.

Straightening, Molly crossed her arms, and observed Sherlock for a moment as he slept.

_Not exactly the sleepover I imagined_, she thought.

Molly suddenly felt the anxiety of the day weigh on her shoulders, could feel it in her bones. She rubbed her forehead to stop the oncoming headache.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ she wondered wearily. She sighed, and went to the kitchen to reset the coffee pot for morning, and then to her own bed for a well-deserved sleep.

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><p><strong>Love? Hate? CONTINUE? <strong>

**^that''ll be my trademark now :)^**


	3. Chapter 3

***creeps into view* Hey...guys! Heh, so, here's Chapter 4! Sorry it took me so long, but life has been hectic, adding to that writer's block, which is a bitch. I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out, but rest assured, I have the rest of the story fully planned! This was just the part of the story that I needed to bridge the rest!**

**Anyway! On with the story!**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and it's characters belong to BBC, Sir ACD, Moffat, Gatiss, Cumberbatch, Freeman, etc.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke to a warm weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, his vision was suddenly filled with speckled fur. Blowing away some hair that had landed in his mouth, he frowned at the furry mass. Molly's cat, for that was what it was, lifted its head languidly and looked at him from under half closed lids. Sherlock scowled, but the cat remained unfazed, instead choosing to stretch itself and cover his face with its tail.<p>

He sat up slowly, his sore body protesting, and the cat rolled off his chest and onto his lap with an indignant "_Mrow!" _It straightened itself and batted at him with its paw, before jumping to the floor and strutting away huffily. He glared after it.

Sherlock rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. His shoulders and legs were stiff, and his ankle had a dull ache radiating from it. Carefully, he shoved the coffee table away from the sofa and swung his legs to the floor. He moaned softly when his bad ankle twinged. Shoulders slumping, he ran a hand through his hair and threw off the quilt that was covering him. He glanced toward the kitchen, and saw the time on Molly's stove read 7:27. Placing his head in his hands, his foggy mind fought to bring itself back up to par, but his sore body fought to be at the forefront.

With a resigned sigh, he lay back down on the sofa to wait for Molly to wake up and bring him painkillers, for once adhering to his body's requests. It was one thing to physically exhaust himself during a case, but a whole other thing when there was no reward in it apart from humiliation. He honestly didn't know if he could make it to the kitchen without tumbling over.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing the backrest, his brain feeling like it was afloat. He hadn't felt this out of it since Irene Adler had chosen to stab him with a hypodermic and reduce him to a wobbling tower of jelly. At least this time Lestrade wasn't there to film him.

The thought of Lestrade made Sherlock's hazy mental focus sharpen. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt began needling its way through his intestines, as thoughts of Lestrade shifted to thoughts of Mrs. Hudson, and…John.

Sherlock shut his eyes against this unfamiliar sensation. He knew he had perfectly logical reasons to feel guilty. It had just never occurred to him that he would actually feel it like normal people would, once again reaffirming John's belief that Sherlock wasn't as sociopathic as he liked to believe.

Opening his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose, and noticed the rather pleasant smell coming from his pillow. He took another whiff, identifying pomegranate and three other subtler smells. Obviously, Molly's shampoo. The knots in his stomach loosened a tad.

With a slight huff, he rolled onto his other side. As he did so a muscle in his shoulder strained, and he moaned softly. Frowning at the opposite wall, Sherlock decided to screw it all and get the painkillers himself. He sat up stiffly and set his sights on the kitchen, where he knew Molly kept her over the counter medicine. By sheer force of will, Sherlock levered himself up and began limping toward his destination, wincing slightly with every step.

He reached the counter and leaned forward against it for support, his head muddled a bit. He reached up with one hand and massaged his forehead, then blinked rapidly. Shuffling sideways, Sherlock began opening and shutting cabinet doors, looking for the medicine.

"They're above the fridge," a voice said behind him. Sherlock whipped his head around.

Molly stood in her bathrobe leaning against the entrance to the hallway that led to her bedroom, arms crossed and a small smile on her face. Her hair was draped in a braid over her shoulder, and Sherlock noticed the dark shadows under her eyes and the slight strain around her mouth.

"And I thought I told you to stay off that ankle," she continued, walking over to the sink and filling a glass of water.

"I was, for the past eight hours actually. I felt the need to stretch my legs." He smirked when his sarcasm made Molly roll her eyes.

Sherlock reached over his head to the cabinet Molly had indicated. Taking down the small bottle, he turned to lean his back against the counter. Sherlock opened it and shook out two pills. A glass of water appeared by his hand, and he glanced down to see Molly holding it out to him. She seemed to be watching him closely as he took it from her.

"Thank you," he said, then knocked back the pills in a gulp of water. Molly took the glass from him and set in on the counter. She placed her hands on her hips and looked him squarely in the face.

"Okay, now go sit on the sofa and rest." She pointed in the direction of the living area. He frowned.

"Are you trying to order me around like a little child?" he asked. Molly huffed and crossed her arms.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it yesterday," she replied.

"That's because I had a concussion that limited my mental capacities."

She frowned, opening her mouth to rebuff him, when the telephone suddenly rang. They both looked to it, and saw that the caller I.D. read _Stamford, M_. Molly's mouth went dry, and she swallowed. She looked back to Sherlock, who was watching her with brows drawn together. She reached over and picked up the phone, then very obviously pointed to Sherlock, then to the couch, her mouth a thin line on her face. Sherlock smirked, musing that her expression would be funny if the atmosphere wasn't so tense. She turned her back to him, putting the phone to her ear. After a moment, Sherlock decided that it would be better for his health to listen to Molly and made his way back to the sofa, all the while listening to Molly's side of the conversation.

"Hello?" she asked into the receiver.

"_Molly? Oh, good. I caught you before you left,_" Mike Stamford's tired voice reached her ear. Her chest tightened.

"Yeah, I was just about to make some breakfast. Is there something you need?" she asked. Stamford sighed on his end.

"_Actually, Molly, I was calling to tell you that, due to recent…events, you've been given leave for the next couple of days,_" he paused, and Molly's breath hitched audibly. Sherlock perked up from his place on the couch at the sound.

Molly couldn't help the tightness in her throat. "Y-Yes, um…thank you," was all she could think of to say.

"_Listen, Molly_," Stamford began. "_I know yesterday was rough on all of us, especially you. Those of us who knew Sherlock know how you…felt about him_." Molly blushed, glad that Stamford couldn't see her face.

"_So, know that we're here for you_," Stamford finished, his words sincere. Molly's eyes became misty with unshed tears.

"Thanks, Mike," she said, her breath hitching again. Sherlock frowned. Stamford coughed slightly, and Molly could tell that he was holding back tears as well.

"_Yes, well…_," he trailed off, "_Oh, and John called_-"Molly paled.

"John?" she interrupted, breathless. Sherlock froze, attentively listening.

"_Yeah. He said he wanted you to know that the funeral is on Saturday, but that since you did the post-mortem you weren't obligated to come if it was too…difficult_." Molly swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Thanks for letting me know," she said, at a loss for anything else to say. Stamford coughed again.

"_You're welcome, Molly. I would say try not to dwell on it on your day off, but then I'd be a hypocrite_," Stamford chuckled wearily, and Molly couldn't help but smile sadly at his attempt at lightening the mood.

"I'll try to take that advice…See you in a couple days, then," she said.

"'_Bye, Molly_," said Stamford, then the phone clicked as the call ended. Molly stood there for a second, then slowly put the phone put in its charger. She placed one hand on the counter, drumming her fingers slowly as the fatigue settled on her shoulders. Sherlock shifted on the sofa.

"So, what did Stamford want?" he asked casually. Molly turned to face him, her eyes blank.

"He just called to say I've got the next couple days off," she said quietly. "You know, since you died and I had to examine your corpse. It would be traumatic to any _normal_ person." Her tone was laden with sarcasm by the end. Sherlock heard it, but decided to ignore it.

"And…John?" he asked, his voice perceptively softer. Molly saw the hesitation in his eyes, and softened her tone as well.

"John wanted me to know that the funeral is on Saturday," she said. Sherlock nodded slowly.

Silence settled between them, until a small growling noise severed it. Molly smiled, realizing it was Sherlock's stomach. He frowned down at his abdomen.

"So, what would you like to eat, on this, the morning after your death? Anything in particular?" Molly asked jokingly, trying to lighten things up as she turned and began opening cabinet doors. Sherlock hesitated.

"Well…" he began. Molly looked at him in surprise, not having expected a response.

"I seem to be in the mood for toast and beans," he said finally. Molly's eyebrows lifted. Sherlock looked away, his face a mask.

"It's something that John would make the morning after we solved a case," he said quietly. "It was sort of an…inside joke between us." Molly's heart softened, then she smiled.

"Okay, toast and beans it is then!" she said brightly, and began rummaging through her kitchen for bread and a can opener. The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted, and he watched Molly as she prepared him breakfast.

Finally, she brought a plate to him on the sofa, and settled down in the armchair with her own food. Sherlock took a bite.

"These aren't the kind of beans we use," he said bluntly. Molly looked at him, a piece of toast in her mouth, unsure how to react. She swallowed, then frowned.

"Do they taste bad?" she asked innocently, poking them with her fork. Sherlock hesitated, for once actually realizing that what he had said sounded rude.

"Never mind," he mumbled, looking down at his plate and opting to keep his opinions to himself. Molly shrugged, and continued eating, oblivious to the memories the food was evoking in Sherlock.

They ate in silence, and when they both finished Molly took their plates and set them in the sink. She faced him, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms. Sherlock's bad leg was propped up on the coffee table again, and his hair was still mussed up from sleep. Molly couldn't help noticing the slight sag in his shoulders, and the weariness in his eyes.

_I can't imagine what it must feel like to be dead to the world. Literally_, she thought to herself. Sherlock's eyes flickered to her.

"What are you doing just standing there?" he asked, and Molly was pulled out of her musings.

"Trying to decide what I should do with my day off," she replied. Just then, her eyes alighted on the bag with Sherlock's bloodied clothes, which he had set by the door the night before. She strode over and picked it up, pulling out his Belfast coat and examining it. Sherlock watched her.

"If any of my clothes are salvageable, I would prefer it was that," he commented. Molly nodded.

"I think it is the only one I _can_ save," she said, folding the bloodied coat over her arm. "I'll take it to the dry cleaners today and pick it up tomorrow." Sherlock nodded slowly. She noticed his eyes glazing over a bit.

_Obviously, he's still rattled from the concussion,_ Molly thought as she went to the kitchen table and set down the coat. Then she headed for the hallway leading to her room.

"I'll just freshen up a bit, then I'll go," she said over her shoulder.

"Wait," Sherlock's voice reached her just as she turned the corner. She leaned back and stuck her head out of the doorway.

"What is it?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked to the side, and his eyebrows drew low over his eyes.

"By now my death will have appeared in every major publication in the city, whether refutable or not. People who know my image will know my coat when they see it, and will grow even more suspicious when they notice it covered in blood," he said, frowning. Molly smirked.

"Don't worry," she said. "The dry cleaners I know is run by a little old couple who only have two priorities in life: cleaning other people's clothes, and _Countdown_. They hardly ever go out, and I'm pretty sure they don't get the paper." Molly smiled reassuringly. Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Look," sighed Molly, "Since you entrusted me with your life, you can at least have confidence in me that I won't expose you."

She turned and entered her bathroom, leaving a slightly disconcerted Sherlock on the couch.

Sherlock lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. In the corner, a spider was scuttling along haphazardly, while Molly's cat gazed up at it in concentration. Sherlock's arm, draped across his forehead, was itching as it missed the familiar stickiness of nicotine patches.

He turned his eyes from the ceiling to the door, willing Molly to come through it. She had left twenty minutes ago, and even with a concussion that reduced his mental capacities for the time being, Sherlock was bored as hell. His exceptionally sharp mind still felt scrambled, and he wished Molly had more powerful painkillers. His ankle throbbed with a dull ache, and his back and shoulders were still stiff. To stave off the boredom, and to distract him, Molly had suggested that he watch television. Obviously, she didn't know about his tendency to yell corrections at it. If John we here, he would have found it amusing.

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he thought of John. When he came back, and he vowed he would after Moriarty's men were taken out, how would John react? Sherlock knew the doctor would probably get violent at first, so he was prepared to take a punch or two. But would John even accept him back into his life? Would their friendship be irrevocably ruined? Sherlock pushed those thoughts away.

Heaving himself up, he decided to do a little exploring to fend off the boredom. Being Sherlock, he had no qualms with rifling through Molly's things. He'd just put them back exactly where he found them.

Getting to his feet, he hobbled past the kitchen and down the hallway to Molly's bedroom. Leaning against the doorframe, he swept his gaze over the cozy little room. A dark red bedspread, neatly tucked in. Open closet full of modest clothes. Photos on a low dresser, with the same woman from Molly's desk, and others. Sherlock went over and picked up a frame containing a picture of a much younger Molly and an older, sickly looking man. Molly's arm were wrapped around the man's middle, and he rested his cheek on her head. Both were smiling, but the man's fatigue clearly showed.

_This is her father…_ Sherlock pondered. He thought back to that conversation they'd had in the lab, a whole lifetime ago it seemed.

_You're like my dad…he was always cheerful, except when he thought no one could see him…I saw him once, he looked…sad….You look sad…._

Sherlock swallowed hard, and set the photo down. He turned his attention to the closet, and shifted aside hangers.

"Mostly cotton and polyester….with her salary she could afford better, chooses to dress for comfort." Stepping back, wincing as he twinged his ankle, his eyes alighted on several shoe boxes with designer labels.

"A shoe fetish, Molly?" he chuckled. Balancing on one foot, he reached up to shift aside the boxes. His fingers brushed a thinner box covered in dust, and he pulled it from the shelf. When he saw the bold letters across the top, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He hoped Molly was in the mood for board games.

Molly blew a strand of hair out of her face as she walked along, swinging the grocery bags at her side. After dropping off Sherlock's coat at the cleaners, she had decided to pick up some food for lunch and dinner. Going to the cleaners, toting a very bloodied coat, had been one of the more awkward experiences of her life. First, Mrs. Leighton had commented on how nice it was that Molly had finally found a man. She then proceeded to insinuate that the reason the coat was bloody was the result of a little too much roughness in the bedroom. Molly's face had gone beet red when the older woman had started giving her tips on how to prevent serious bodily harm while still getting maximum pleasure. She had rushed out of there as soon as she made sure the coat would be ready the next day.

Molly shifted the bag in her hand so she could pull out her keys. She entered the flat, fully expecting Sherlock either to be on the couch staring up at the ceiling in boredom or rummaging through her kitchen. What she did not expect was the detective to be seated on the floor by the coffee table, a Cluedo board game spread out before him. He looked up from his examination of the suspect cards when she opened the door.

"Ahh, Molly," he said, holding up the cards. "You're just in time to start playing. Pick your playing piece, I've already decided to be Professor Plum." He held up a small plastic purple piece and smiled at her like what he had just said was completely normal. Molly blinked.

"Where did you even find that old thing?" she asked, walking over to the kitchen and setting down the groceries and her purse.

"In your closet," he said, arranging the cards on the board. Molly looked up from putting away the milk and frowned.

"You were in my closet?" she asked, not knowing if she should somehow feel flattered or creeped out.

"Yes," he replied, not looking up. "It was the least dull option available to me at the time." Molly rolled her eyes, and put away the last of the groceries.

As Sherlock reached over to set Molly's record sheet on the board, his sore muscles protested and he groaned. He sat back and rotated his shoulder. Two pills and a glass of water appeared in front of his face. He looked up, and saw Molly standing over him.

"Take your pills and I'll play with you," she said, a small smile on her face. He took the pills and knocked them back with water. When she was satisfied, she went over and sat on the floor on the opposite end of the table.

An hour later, she was ready to pull her hair out.

"Sherlock, for the last time, that's impossible!"

The detective glowered at her.

"How on earth is it impossible? If the victim did it to himself, it was obviously a suicide!" he exclaimed, pointing at his record sheet. Molly rubbed her brow to calm herself.

"Suicide isn't a valid option in Cluedo!" she said.

"Now you sound just like John!" he said, crossing his arms like a petulant child, "'It's not in the rules, Sherlock'. Whoever came up with this game had the IQ of a trout!" Molly sighed.

"Do you always say it was the victim himself, Sherlock?" she asked, honestly curious. She had never known someone to get worked up over a game like Cluedo. But then again, it was a detective game, and she was playing with one of the best. Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"I've never had the chance to say otherwise! John refused to play again after that first time," Sherlock scowled in the direction of the couch. Molly giggled, musing how he looked like a moody preteenager when he acted like this. How could John stand having him as a roommate?

He looked at her when the laugh escaped her lips.

"What's so funny?" he demanded. Molly shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smirking.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, waving her hand to brush his question aside. She glanced at the clock on the stove over Sherlock's shoulder. Deciding that it was time to start making lunch, she stood and brushed off her pants. Sherlock watched her stand.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him, heading to the kitchen. She heard the couch creak as Sherlock heaved himself on top of it, and a small thunk as he set his bad leg on the coffee table.

Rummaging through her cabinets, she decided to make soup and sandwiches. She looked up when she heard no reply.

"Sherlock?" she asked, leaning around the doorway. Sherlock was sitting there, his eyes unfocused. The detective shook his head, as if clearing his muddled thoughts. He looked up at her and smiled, though his eyes were blank.

"Yes, thank you, Molly," he said, and went back to the staring at nothing. Molly's eyebrows drew down in concern. The faraway look in his eyes…Molly suspected he was thinking of John. A small ache blossomed in her chest.

Abandoning lunch for the time being, Molly walked over and stood next to the couch. Sherlock ignored her at first, but looked up at her after a few moments. She stood there, ringing her hands, not sure how to offer words of comfort to him.

After another moment, she sat herself next to him and took his hand in both of hers. When he tried to pull it away in surprise, she tightened her grip. He scowled down at her, but when she met his eyes he froze. Even with Sherlock's limited knowledge of human emotion, he could see the depths of pain in her eyes. This confused him greatly. Why did she care so much? Why did it seem she could understand the pain he himself didn't fully comprehend?

His gaze became sharper, and Molly's cheeks felt hot. She looked away embarrassed, and dropped his hand. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she stood and went to the kitchen.

"How do cucumber sandwiches sound, hm?" she asked, her tone light. She looked back over her shoulder at the man on the couch, who was looking at her with a puzzled expression. She smiled a small smile, then turned back to opening cabinet doors. She heard him clear his throat.

"Sounds good," he muttered.


End file.
